Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

Tags: #Fantasy, #Fantasy Fiction, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Occult & Supernatural, #Historical Fiction, #Vampires, #Rome, #Saint-Germain

Roman Dusk (40 page)

BOOK: Roman Dusk

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“There are rumors everywhere,” Bion began.

“That is no surprise,” Sanct-Franciscus remarked.

“No. No, it’s not,” Bion agreed. “They say that there are conspirators in Brundisium who are plotting against Heliogabalus. They are to be arrested and sent to the arena, or so it’s said.”

Sanct-Franciscus thought of the youngster he had spoken with earlier, and wondered if the child had been right in his fears. “The Praetorians are at the Basilica?”

“They say they are going to arrest those suspected tonight, so that they will not be warned.” Bion reached for his wine and drank hastily.

“Since no one knows the Praetorians are here, they can act covertly,” said Sanct-Franciscus ironically. “Is that what brought you here?”

Bion took a second long drink of his hot wine and waved the folded scroll under Sanct-Franciscus’ face. “Look at this. My scribe compiled it as we were loading. There are two chests left in your apartment upstairs, but I have them listed here, at the end of the inventory. Numbers thirty-one and thirty-two. You’ll see.” He flapped the scroll for emphasis.

“If you will give it to me, I will read it,” Sanct-Franciscus said, checking over his shoulder to determine how much attention the men crowded together into the tavern were giving them. “Perhaps it would be best to do this in my apartment, away from the curious?”

“I take your point,” said Bion, also looking toward the men. “Too many eyes, and too many ears.” He gulped down the last of his wine and set the cup next to Mercury again, knowing no one would touch it while it was there. “Your manservant is out, they tell me—gone to have his meal.”

“As is his custom at this hour,” said Sanct-Franciscus as he climbed the stairs ahead of Bion.

“An odd hour,” said Bion.

Sanct-Franciscus ignored his comment, asking instead, “What are the prospects for leaving tomorrow? Have you any useful information?”

“I am sure there will be squalls through the night, but if the morning is clear and the dawn isn’t red or violet, then I will walk the beach, to see the speed of the waves, and their height, and after I have considered all I can learn, I will make up my mind.” Reaching the landing, he stopped. “You own the ship, and you can order me out to sea, of course, but—”

“You are a captain and you know the sea—I am not a captain, and my knowledge of the sea is slight.” Sanct-Franciscus continued his climb. “I bow to your superior judgment and experience.”

“That is most reasonable of you, honestiorus.” He extended the scroll again. “This is your inventory. I must submit it to the Prefect of Trade for assessment before we leave.”

“Yes, you must.” Sanct-Franciscus opened the door to his apartment and went in, holding the door so that Bion could step inside.

“You must sign the inventory, or the Prefect may levy a higher assessment on your goods.”

“I am aware of the law,” said Sanct-Franciscus as he took the scroll and opened it. “If you will light the lamps?”

“Certainly,” said Bion, pulling flint-and-steel from his wallet and striking a spark at the wick of the largest of the oil-lamps. On his second attempt, flame sprouted and the shadows retreated. “You should read this. Or do you need a scribe?”

“I read well enough for this,” said Sanct-Franciscus, saying nothing about the many tongues he had learned in his more than two thousand years of life. He held the length of vellum up and perused it quickly. “I have a red-lacquer chest that contains my medicaments. It is listed here in ninth place. Neither the chest nor its contents are to be sold, and so they should be taxed as property, not merchandise.”

“I’ll make a note of it,” said Bion. “How do you plan to pay the Prefect?”

“In aurei,” said Sanct-Franciscus tranquilly; he had used some of his months of recovery to make a large amount of gold in his athanor, and had accumulated coins enough to carry them well beyond the Roman Empire, should that be necessary.

“He may be greedy,” Bion warned.

“Many officials are,” said Sanct-Franciscus with little emotion.

“Not just the ones in Roma,” Bion agreed. “Is the inventory accurate?”

Sanct-Franciscus held up his hand as he finished reading. “It appears to be. I can find nothing missing or added.” He looked around for his writing-box; it contained his ink pads, styluses, quills, and a vial of water. “Shall I sign at the bottom or the top?” he asked, though he knew the answer.

“The bottom. And don’t leave any room, or the Prefect may suspect that extra items have been added.”

“As you wish,” He located his writing-box and was about to prepare his ink when there was a rap at the door.

“May I enter?” Rugeri asked.

“Yes, old friend, you may.” Sanct-Franciscus went on with the preparation of ink, and offered a half-smile as he indicated Captain Bion. “I am endorsing the inventory so that Captain Bion can file it.”

“Another chore done,” said Rugeri, the suggestion of worry vanishing from his face. “I have heard the Praetorians are here.”

“And I; I have seen them, a company of them, entering the Basilica, in secrecy,” Bion said quickly. “Which is one of the reasons I have come: to warn Sanct-Franciscus that he may be in danger.”

Rugeri nodded. “A wise precaution.”

“In this time, everyone must be careful.” Bion watched while Sanct-Franciscus set down his name, the name of his company, and his destination, then waited for the ink to dry. When the scroll was refolded, he took it from Sanct-Franciscus, saying, “I will file this with the Prefect of Trade now, before I return to the
Pleiades
, so that if the morning is clear, there will be no delays from the Prefecture. You may pay your charges before you board. I will arrange it.”

“And thus I will avoid the Praetorians? A good plan,” said Sanct-Franciscus, starting to put away his writing materials. “I will not keep you now, Captain Bion. I will expect your decision on setting out an hour after dawn. May Somnus bring you sweet sleep.”

“And you,” said Bion, and was about to leave when he stopped. “Do you truly want to remain in your cabin throughout the voyage? Those are my instructions, but I want you to understand: it could be twenty days to Alexandria.”

“Yes. I want to stay in my cabin. Rugeri will attend to me,” said Sanct-Franciscus, adding diffidently. “I am prone to sea-sickness, and I fare better if left to my own devices, and my bondsman’s care.”

“Sea-sick!” Bion exclaimed. “You—a successful merchant, and you get sea-sick.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Very well. If you must stay in your cabin, no one will disturb you unless there is trouble. This is the best I can offer you—I trust you understand.”

“I will be grateful,” said Sanct-Franciscus, motioning to Rugeri to open the door for Bion, who ducked his head before he left.

As soon as the door was closed and Bion had tromped off down the stairs, Rugeri said, “I think it is a good time to be gone.”

“And I,” said Sanct-Franciscus.

“Captain Bion—do you trust him?” Rugeri asked.

“Enough to get aboard his ship,” said Sanct-Franciscus.

“Your ship,” Rugeri corrected him.

“Perhaps, in the eyes of the law, but not in his heart; there the
Pleiades
is his child and his mistress,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “Which is why I will be as safe on the
Pleiades
as I may be on any vessel.”

Rugeri kept his thoughts to himself, saying only, “Will you go out again tonight? The storm is quieting.”

“Perhaps; after midnight.”

“Depending upon the weather?” Rugeri suggested as he struck flint-and-steel to light another lamp.

“And the Praetorians,” Sanct-Franciscus appended, his dark eyes becoming distant once again, fixed no longer on what lay behind him, but what might lie ahead. “I will go out: after I have written to Olivia.”

Text of a letter from Pax Ignatia Laelius at Roma to Sanct-Franciscus through the steward at Villa Ragoczy, and carried by private messenger to Alexandria in Egypt.

To my most valued friend of years past, the greetings of Domina Pax Ignatia Laelius from Villa Laelius in Roma, now rebuilt and once again my home, on this, the 5
^thday of May in the 975
^thYear of the City.

I cannot believe it is more than two years since I have seen you, but so it is, and I apologize for my dilatory attention. I should have written to you before now. I should have come to visit you during your recuperation at Villa Ragoczy, but the truth of it is that I was afraid that you would die, and after the death of my mother, I could not bear to contemplate another great loss. But I had one, in the death of my brother. You may not have been told, but he and three companions were set upon by unknown robbers who it seems, were caught breaking into the house where he was staying. The Urban Guard reported that they suspected a gang of three northerners operating in that part of the city, but they could not be apprehended. The Christians who are part of the group to which Octavian belonged have proclaimed him and his companions martyrs to their faith.

With all the demands of these losses, I have been occupied with attending to the changes that they have brought upon me. I am now the last of my family. I know you will understand how much a burden that can be. It is one thing to achieve old age and out-live most others, but I am twenty-seven; I may be past marriageable age but I am far from being a crone. To find myself with only my sister and her two boys left to carry on—and to lose the name upon my death—is very stark. Had I not had the wisdom and comfort of your friendship, I would find my world far more bleak than it is. You have shown me that it is possible to lose all and yet endure. As it turns out, I have not lost all, for I am now counted a wealthy woman.

My uncle has signed control of my inheritance over to my management except for the twelve hundred aurei that is my mother’s dowry, to be held in trust until I marry. If I do not marry, then I may bequeath the sum to an heir of my choosing, since I have no nieces who would have a claim on the dowry. My father’s aunt died last year, and left her fortune unencumbered to me, and that has doubled my wealth. The Curia has approved my mother’s brother’s disposal, and praised him for upholding our traditions, and my uncle, I think, is pleased to be rid of the responsibility of my maintenance. I have begun the task of setting up my household, and it is proving less daunting than I had feared. All the years I cared for my mother, I learned a great deal about how a household is run, and those lessons now stand me in good stead.

As you must have heard, wherever you are, Heliogabalus was killed by the Praetorians on March 11, for his excesses and his dishonor of the Senate and people of Roma. That is the official reason for the murder. Whatever other causes there might be, they are spoken only in whispers. His young cousin Gessius, or to use his optimistic reigning name, Marcus Aurelius Severs Alexander, is now elevated to the purple, to the delight of his mother. Julia Mamaea has a steadier hand than. Julia Soaemias. The boy may last longer. Roma is wary of this child, but relief is everywhere. Even Roma was growing weary of Heliogabalus’ unchecked dissipation.

There is so much I want to say to you, but as I try to express all that is in my thoughts and my heart, I cannot find the words I seek. If you and I were conversing, it might be possible to convey all I want to you. For you, who have known me better than anyone, since I cannot see you, cannot touch you, cannot hear your voice, I am mute. I ask you to pardon my stillness. You, of all men, must comprehend the reason for it. If ever you return to Roma and I am still here, I ask you to visit me, so that I may impart what I cannot express in words. Until that time, may Mercury, Neptune, Fortuna, and your gods protect you, and may Fraus and the waters of Phlegethon remain far from you.

With affection and devotion,
Pax Ignatia Laelius

by the hand of Felifanus, the scribe

EPILOGUE

T
ext of a letter from Ragoczy Germain Sanctus-Franciscus at Vindobona to Atta Olivia Clemens at Emona, carried by private courier.

To my long-cherished Atta Olivia Clemens, Ragoczy Germain Sanctus-Franciscus, as I am known here, sends greetings.

I have your letter of January 7
^thwith me, which, I am pleased to say, has actually reached me after going through Alexandria and Narona to arrive in Vindobona, where I am staying at present. I have acquired a house and suited it to my needs. It is far from lavish, but it is sturdy and the roof does not leak.

Out here at the edge of the Roman Empire, I am struck with the hard life these people are willing to tolerate all for the privilege of calling themselves citizens of Roma. This city may have walls and a Legion, but it is little more than a typical border village, a rough place under constant threat of attack from beyond the frontier. Those foolish enough to go beyond the city gates may take their lives in their hands, as many reckless Romans have learned. There are times going out of the house is enough to bring mortal danger upon one. Just a month ago, the factor of the Legion here was found beaten to death on a dung-heap, not ten paces from the Legion barracks.

Rotiger is with me still; he has this household—limited though it is—well within his command, and he has gained the trust of the local merchants in all his dealings with them, so that what few luxuries reach this place, we have first claim on them, foreigners or not.

I am enclosing with this a few new jewels toward any costs that you may encounter in pressing your claims on your Roman property when you return there next spring. I am assuming you are still planning on such a journey, and that you will find the decuriae of Roma as avaricious as I did. Think of it as a return on your generosity to me during my stay there, a decade ago.

Speaking of that time, last month I was delivered a message informing me that Melidulci has succumbed to fever and has had her body burned, supposedly in tribute to the customs of the old Republic. She left a goblet to me, as a remembrance of her, which surprised me, given her protestations of no strong attachment. It may be that over time, her affection increased, or her memories may have altered her understanding of what we had in our time together.

That does concern me, now and again. I think my memories are true, and I rely upon them to be so. Yet over the centuries, my vision of them has changed, and I occasionally fear they will become so distorted that I can no longer depend on what I recall. It is those times when I value you most deeply, for you and I share almost two centuries of memories. Between you and Rotiger, I know I will not lose my link to the past, or not completely, and that gives me solace that I thought I would never know again. From the deepest chamber of my unbeating heart, I thank you for that, and for your constant love, which I return in full measure until the True Death consigns me to the realm of memories.